


Ink

by Jon



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Painplay, Tattoos, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 05:38:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jon/pseuds/Jon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We see Thorin's intricate blackwork chest tattoo in Weta's Design Chronicles- but how does he get it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ink

Before, every tap of the needle on Thorin’s skin had made him flinch, but soon a numb haze had taken over, and the pain which had stung sharply was transformed into a dull ache.

It seems like hours ago that he’d lain down for the tattooing to begin- undertaken the ritual washing of his body, before lying facing up on the pristine sheets with his flesh prickling through the cold and suppressed anxiousness.  
  
He trusted Dwalin to do this, trusted the steadiness of his hands me keenness of his eye. He’d done this before, for many men before him, including his brother Balin, who the elder dwarf had admitted had his doubts of his own brother’s abilities. But Dwalin’s hands were calm and his face resolute as he worked, ever keeping one eye on the design on the sheaf of paper to his side, and a another on Thorin’s skin.  
  
‘You still alright, Thorin?’ he would ask occasionally, but they both knew Thorin wouldn’t say anything but ‘aye’ to him. He was far too proud.  
  
The intensity of it all muted him, with Thorin content to remain in silence and savour their bond in the darkness. Over time, he felt blood start to trickle from the puncture wounds, slipping down to stain the sheets- which were soot-black with stray ink wiped from Dwalin’s fingers. He’d never known things so big to be so dexterous and gentle- more accustomed to seeing his blood-brother grasping a sturdy axe-haft than this fragile blade.  
  
He allowed his fingers to map the curves of his chest with the needle and ink, drawing over the lines of his form- the design spilling slowly, painfully slowly, over every bone, over every soft contour. Dwalin looked not at him at first as he concentrated, but after the hours passed and his hands found a rhythm, Thorin held his gaze more than once.  
  
He found watching the dwarf work enchanting, and a sly part of him longed for Dwalin to think the same of his living canvass. A particularly sensitive strike across his ribs spiked his pain out of the fog, and Thorin couldn’t help but moan out. The elder dwarf drew back as if bitten and hissed at himself for being so clumsy, but as Thorin’s eyes opened and flickered again to his face, he hoped that his moan had not been _too_ unwelcome to his ears.  
  


Dwalin wrung out a warm cloth to wipe the blood and ink from his chest- he paused-

‘This is going to hurt’.

The blood mixed with water, flowing down over his hips and staining his breeches. Thorin cried out as the pain doubled, grasping the forearm which hovered above him. Sparks of white flew behind his lids and he groaned

Thorin felt a breath by him, Dwalin’s encouraging murmurs gently soothed him back down as the wash cloth dragged over his sensitive flesh- but soon as quickly as it came, the sting ebbed.

‘That’s enough for today, Prince’

 

**

 

Thorin sat cross-legged now. The hands of Dwalin moved as nimbly as they did when making art to unwrap his bandages from around his chest.

‘Still tender?’ he asked gruffly, eyeing the redness.

Thorin tried to laugh it off, but in reality he was dreading the next few hours.

‘Anything for the memory of my kin,’ he said.

 _Anything to have you touching me again_ , he meant.

 

**

 

And then it started, the burn flaring up as the marks were carved, as his ancestor’s legacy was drawn upon him- as so many of his forefather’s before him had.

He wondered how many of them had lusted uncontrollably for their artist all the while.

He was restless in his loose pants, which were comfortable for laying but all together too revealing. It bared him as though he was nude under Dwalin’s appraising gaze, underneath those dark eyes Thorin had come to trust, and recently desire. They drilled him- forced him to see him, every slight tap, every push of the needle in and out; it drew Thorin to yearn to reach up and grab the strip of hair which ran down his head. To beg him to rid him of the flimsy cloth about his waist entirely.

Was it just him, or was Dwalin leaning a bit closer than before- showing a bit more of his bare side and muscled stomach as he worked shirtless over him? The calming oils Dwalin had rubbed upon the pillow to help relax him did little to still his mind, rather reminding him that scented oils could be put to an entirely different use.

He wondered if there was _any_ point in him doing the cleansing ritual before hand, if he was only going to sully his body anyway with these thoughts. Thorin tried to focus on the pain- the only sensation grounding him and making his cock stay mercifully still in his trousers.

 

**

 

Dwalin bent further down towards his chest- almost flush against him.

This awoke Thorin as if from a dream, and he reached up with his hips blindly seeking him. He quickly reined himself in and disguised this as a shift to get more comfortable, which circulated some blood around his legs, at last as they had begun to cramp.

The touch of the leather of Dwalin’s trousers on his leg could have almost been a slap to the face for what it did to him.

‘ _Please_ -‘

Dwalin had to stop- they had to stop now, before Thorin stopped biting his tongue and blurted out what was racing through his pain-soaked, lust-drenched mind.

Dwalin raised a questioning, black brow, and his hands stilled from where they were inking the last finer details of the chest piece. As if with ink and needle of his own, Thorin’s eyes traced his face- needing to mark around the line of his lips with his teeth as the other did his skin.

The needle and ink fell away as Dwalin bent closer still, their lips _almost_ close enough to brush.


End file.
